On the Job
by Amilyn
Summary: With the entire DC Superhero community on a handful of major missions, Gotham remains in the capable hands of an undercover Oracle, with only Alfred Pennyworth as backup. Will they be enough to deal with Gotham crime tonight? Written in Yuletide 2019 for WritLarge. No warnings apply.


On the Job

By Amy L. Hull

With the entire DC Superhero community on a handful of major missions, Gotham remains in the capable hands of an undercover Oracle, with only Alfred Pennyworth as backup. Will they be enough to deal with Gotham crime tonight? Written in Yuletide 2019 for WritLarge.

"Lighthouse, miss? Can I interest you in the Lighthouse? Sir, Lighthouse. No charge." Barbara pushed herself up, letting gravity stretch her upper back, and the pamphlet crumpled between her fingerless leather gloves and her tire.

She hung her head, and her neck pinched, tugging at tight knots by her shoulder blades. Looking up all day in the autumn breeze would do that. She pushed with alternating hands until her hips swung side to side slightly, then resettled farther back on her seat cushion. Picking up each thigh, she shook her feet, resettling them so they landed on her footplate with dull thuds.

It had been a long eight hours on this street corner, next to a rack of tacky pamphlets she'd...liberated from the back of a van disseminating young people in dresses and neat shirts with ties along with their flavor of salvation.

She held out the crumpled pamphlet to a man in a smart woolen coat. "Lighthouse, sir?"

He muttered something almost certainly vulgar, but it was better than some of the vitriol her cover had attracted. Some shouted or spat, and some people had pitied her, offering money, platitudes, and prayers. One man had held her hand between his for an uncomfortably long time, then kissed it, wishing her "healing." White-haired ladies had tut-tutted her-one even patted her head, saying "There, there," to the pom pom puff of the pink hat she wore. (Who thought redheads could wear pink, again? She certainly wouldn't be caught dead in pink...unless she was undercover, apparently.)

The overwhelming majority, though, had avoided eye contact and walked past without a word, often speeding up a bit. She doubted anyone could describe her beyond "woman worshipping in wheelchair."

"Lighthouse?" A smartly-dressed woman skirted away from the proffered pamphlet. Barbara swallowed a smile; it was a welcome change, having the people avoiding eye contact and picking up their pace as they passed doing so to avoid religion rather than, well, _her_.

Peering across the street through evening traffic, Babs scrunched her nose twice in succession and her glasses shifted into telescopic mode. Wayne Enterprises had outdone themselves on these, even putting them into frames almost identical to her daily wear ones. A brisk wind chilled her cheek and kicked a cluster of crisp leaves into a tiny spiral rotation, and their clatter was enough to draw her attention away from the inaction in the upper-floor condo. The tiny dust devil looked like a massive storm bearing down on her, and she twitched her nose quickly to turn the surveillance lenses back to normal viewing, which had her regular prescription. These were good, she reflected, mentally enumerating the details of the assessment she'd send to R&D later.

So it was that she only noticed the approach of the tall, slender man in the trenchcoat and fedora after he spoke. "Sister Bea?"

Barbara jumped, reaching for her brakes and rims, and only letting out a breath when she saw the kindly blue eyes above a familiar thin mustache and bow tie.

"Alf…_Brother_ Al." She forced a smile. "What are you doing here?"

"I was, er, shall we say, _birding_ long-distance, and noticed you'd been here for quite a number of hours. With the rest of the, er, _congregants_ away on their...missions, I thought you might need some support or back-up."

She raised her eyebrows, which probably disappeared under the floofy hat. "Keeping tabs on me, Brother Al?"

"I'd say it was the least I could do, but, well-" The corner of his mouth twitched and he produced a thermos seemingly from nowhere. "Tea?"

The offer warmed her all the way to her feeling-less toes. "As good as that sounds, I'm afraid I can't afford to-"

Alfred produced a silver ziplock package. "Mis...Sister Bea, you need to take care of yourself, so I thought I'd take your station for a short while so you can have a break, then I thought I might join you for the last hour of your shift."

She looked from the discretely folded bag to Alfred's open, sincere face. He might be able to be duplicitous about his own background, but he never lied to the crime-fighters he cared for.

With a decisive nod, she took the packet.

"You do what you need, and I will stand watch." He nodded toward the building she'd been eyeing. "The fourth floor on the right corner, yes?"

She nodded. "Be right in a jiffy." She tucked the ziplock between her thigh and rain shield, disengaged her brakes, and set off. She'd noticed a small coffee shop two doors down earlier, but hadn't needed to stop. She was pleased to see the small ramp leading into the establishment's glass door. Though narrow, it got her up the two steps into the main dining area, half full of people on computers who looked college-age. One of the three sofas had a couple of teenagers necking for all they were worth, staying right at the edge of what wouldn't get them kicked out.

The door and walls exhibited the near-ubiquitous signs declaring, "Bathrooms for paying customers only," so she paused at the cash register to order a couple of scones and get the needed key.

Despite the crowded café space, the single-person toilets were, surprisingly, recently renovated and wide, with well-placed grab bars. She tugged off her gloves, tucking them against her other rain shield, and scrubbed her hands at the perfect-height sink. The biggest surprise, though, was the small packet Alfred had handed her. Stamped as a Wayne Enterprises prototype, the tidily rolled packet was a touchless cath combined with a closed system, and it included wipes and gloves. She made a mental note to create a response to this R&D team as well, noting what worked well, what suggestions to make, and a reminder to ask if less plastic could be used to reduce waste. She'd have to praise this as discreet, simple, effective, and efficient.

She hadn't even noticed that her muscles had been getting twitchy until she'd voided and her body calmed. Alfred was a lifesaver.

Scrubbing her hands again, she thought wryly that she'd never used as much lotion in her life as in these past few years...and never been more grateful for leather gloves that didn't leave her hands sliding on her push rims.

The baristas recognized her immediately-the irony of being invisible and yet instantly memorable was not lost on Barbara-and leaned over to hand her the scones. Her quick thanks was cut off.

"Miss, do you have a way to carry coffee? It's a special: after 5pm, if you buy two scones you get one extra and a coffee for free."

"Oh. That's lovely." She pulled up on a loop and twisted the tube to the custom mug-holder setting.

"I figure you've got it, but let us know if you need anything." The barista's smile was almost as wide as the cascade of curly hair in a high ponytail.

"Thanks, I'm-" Babs sniffed the fragrance wafting up. "You know, if you have a chocolate syrup, I wouldn't mind that."

"More than glad!" She leaned way forward for the cup, quickly added the syrup, stirred it well, and handed it back. "Just let us know if we can do anything else. Hope to see you again!"

"Thanks," Babs called as she shoved the door open ahead of her. "I'll definitely be back!" Anywhere that presumed her competence, she would definitely give them her business.

Outside, Alfred again proffered tea, but Barbara demurred, sipping happily on her mocha. They split the first scone-a cinnamon crunchies affair that Alfred declared "American imperialist rubbish" under his breath, muttering for a moment about the necessity for COLD butter, the need-across the board in America-for less cinnamon and less sugar in all baked goods.

She suppressed a smile and swirled the cinnamon scone and chocolatey coffee on her tongue. Perfection. The short time in the café had warmed her shoulders and neck, and the coffee warmed all the way down, though a heavy-handed splash of Bailey's would have made it even better. _Later,_ she promised herself.

She pointed to her earpiece, invisible under the flame of hair that poked out from under her hat. "Even police chatter has been quiet today, as if nothing is going on in Gotham."

"That hardly seems likely," Alfred said.

She flicked her eyes to the building, shaking her head. "I thought for sure he'd have been home by now," she muttered. She scrunched her nose and reactivated telescopic view. The windows were still dark, and there was no movement. She bit her lip. "What if I chose the wrong lead to follow?"

"That seems highly unlikely."

"Thanks."

"Hmmm." Alfred held out another pamphlet to a pedestrian. "May I interest you in the Lighthouse? Free of charge." He added _sotto voce_. "Miss Gordon, could you not have chosen something less...uncomfortable to use as a cover?"

"Being in the open but desperately unwanted makes us functionally invisible," she replied into her coffee cup.

Alfred sighed and held out a pamphlet. "Could I offer you-"

"Mmmmm."

Alfred looked down at her, and she flicked her eyes toward the window where lights had just come on.

She twitched her cheek, increasing the magnification to focus on the inside of the condo. A tall man staggered as if shoved, then a woman almost fell into him. Next in view was a gun in a beefy hand, finger twitching dangerously on the trigger, then another gun, this one in a pale but lean hand. A third man stepped into view, chin up and shoulders back so they matched the imperiously lifted eyebrow and disaffected, pale eyes.

The first man clung to the back of the very 40s, tailored grey jacket worn by the woman who, at her full height, bested them all by as much as two inches, the pale-eyed one by even more.

She narrated the scene to Alfred. "The goons don't seem too bright; they keep glancing at Mr. Pale-eyes there."

"Do we know what the cause of this dispute might be?"

"There was chatter on the comms about, let's see, an accountant embezzling from multiple multi-national money-laundering corporations, a counter-counterfeiting ring infringing on the territory of another counterfeiter, and possibly violent protest plans against a chemical factory near a mutation cluster."

"That sounds like quite the variety." He turned to a passerby, "Lighthouse, madam?"

She scurried past quickly, and Babs bit her lip again, swallowing a smile. "The cross-chatter was confusing, but I think these are the counter-counterfeiters clashing." She drained her coffee and tugged on her gloves. "Alfred, could you call the police station and make sure my father knows to send officers to this location to deal with firearms and kidnapping violations? I'm going to stick close over there, keep an eye on things."

"Miss Gordon."

Alfred's hand came out, and she clenched her teeth. She didn't want to mouth off at Alfred, who had never once changed how he spoke to or looked at her, who had been the most reliable person in Bruce Wayne's sphere, whom she could actually talk to. But lord help him if he touched her, tried to stand in her way, or told her how to run her mission.

He pivoted and faced her. "Please be careful." His smile, never wide unless it was at Batman, Robin, or Nightwing's expense, was slight but warm. "I never again want to hear you've been injured."

Barbara nodded, then unlocked her brakes. Always the gentleman, he'd left her plenty of room to go whatever direction she needed. "I'll be careful, Alfred. Just make that call."

"I also wouldn't want to have to ask Master Dick to come back from this...mission to, ahem, play nursemaid."

"Never gonna happen," she called over her shoulder.

The building was only a block and a half away, and the park between it and the café had wide, diagonal sidewalks that circled a centrally-located fountain. The brisk air in the autumn breeze made her wish she'd brought full gloves, but, then, she hadn't expected to be here for almost nine hours or for the sun to go down. Anyway, these had just the right padding to give her an even stronger grip on her ergonomic push-rims, another prototype from Wayne Enterprises.

Two or three more items and they'd have an entire specialty product line: _"Spinal Cord Injury? Shot by a Crazy Clown? Have we got the wellness and mobility aids for you!"_

She scoffed. Being goofy did help her keep her cool, though, and she pondered creative names for the pale-eyed crime boss. "Pale-eyes" was far too pedestrian-

Shots rang out from the upper floors of the building. Babs, already nearly across the park, flinched and ducked instinctively. Shaking off the shudder that rippled down her back and into her belly, she shifted her weight forward, leaning into her pushes.

Another two shots rang out.

Just as she reached the edge of the building's parking lot, the door flew open and two men hurtled out. Behind them, Pale-eyes adjusted his lapels and jacket, strolling with that same arrogant posture. He was the type to get away with anything, exactly how Bruce Wayne would be if he wasn't committed to the law.

He turned away from Barbara and, shoulders burning, she increased speed to follow. Just as her breath began to come in gasps, just as he started to widen the gap between them, her pushes suddenly took less effort. Then she was accelerating. Then he was getting closer.

They were headed downhill. A quick glance showed her they were headed for a major street that flickered with the headlights of heavy traffic.

She was still gaining on him, even though her palms were warming where she let the leather and padding drag against the rims.

Then her castors started to vibrate.

Then her whole chair started to shudder.

The wind whipped her hair around her face and air blew into her pant legs, jacket, eyes, and ears.

For a moment, it was almost like jumping off a building and flying until the jump line went taut.

Then she was next to him, and she threw herself toward him like a football player. Her arms went around his waist like a toddler greeting her parents home after a week's solitary vacation, and she tucked her head into his stomach as their momentum took them to the ground before sending them rolling into a heap.

"Ooof," he gasped, then groaned again.

"You're going to be arrested," she grunted. Her poker face didn't waver as she settled herself atop his pelvis.

His breathing was labored and he gasped, clearly having had the breath knocked out of him. Barbara breathed carefully, in and out, in and out to regain her resting pulse in case this guy made another run for it.

Just as she heard the first sirens in the distance, he started to squirm. She leaned forward and pinned his shoulders. _Not sure how I'm going to explain this to dad,_ she thought.

"Get off me, you lunatic!" he shouted.

A car pulled up, and she braced herself to explain to the officer.

"Hey! Get this bitch off of me! Someone get her away from me!"

The door opened, feet hit the pavement, and the shoes clicked against the pavement. Glancing under her arm, Barbara saw brown instead of black, wing-tips instead of duty shoes.

She looked up into Alfred's calm face above a hand extended, not with a pamphlet, but with a few zip-ties. She accepted them and tied her quarry's hands, then she shifted to the ground and tied his feet, running one last zip-tie to hold his wrists and ankles close together.

"Might wanna stop boasting about your operation all over town next time," she said. "I think the cops are going to be very interested in whatever story you have to tell them once they hear the audio files I have on you."

Alfred reappeared with her wheelchair, and she pulled it next to her, locked the brakes, and pushed against the ground and chair frame, vaulting her hips back onto the seat.

Pale-eyes stared. "You've _got_ to be kidding me."

"I'd recommend you don't say anymore." She kept her tone light even through a tight smile. "To Anyone." Joining Alfred, she got in the car and let him stow her chair in the back seat.

Squads skidded to a stop at the scene just as they turned the corner.

"Thanks, Alfred, that could've been awkward for dad to explain to his officers, finding me there like that."

"Merely a citizen's arrest, Miss Gordon."

By the time they were back at the Clocktower, the news stations were all chattering about the arrest of Chad Chadwick, grandson and heir to the Rheinhardt fortune, for international money laundering for a numerous organizations, foreign and domestic. Old Mr. Rheinhardt gave a statement from his front porch, meticulously clad in what once would have been called a smoking jacket, stressing his deep disappointment that his grandson would turn to illegal maneuverings to expand the family's fortunes.

"You think the grandfather knew?"

"I am sure I do not know, Miss Gordon." Alfred set down a tray with steaming mugs on it. "Every time I hope differently, I find that even those I wish were immune to such foibles often fall to them."

"You're right. Our job is to catch them if we can and let the courts sort it out."

"And to hope those courts are unbiased and unbought," Alfred added.

Barbara nodded. Shaking off the uncomfortable thoughts of bought-and-paid-for judges, she gestured to her monitor array. "You know, I was really afraid something dire would happen while I was out today, but the only message is from Dick."

"And how is Master Dick?"

He'd included images of sights from around the city alongside their surveillance footage and notes. The final image was of Dick wearing an utterly, unfittingly absurd hat from the local traditional dress. It merely made him look even more awkward than he was currently admitting to feeling. "He looks good. Good but dorky."

"That does sound like Master Dick." They both smiled, joined in shared fondness for the boy-turned-nearly-man they both knew so well. "Miss Gordon, I've taken the liberty to make you a large cup of my very own hot cocoa, infused with a more-than-generous dollop of the Bailey's Irish Cream from your cupboard."

"Oh, mmmm. I was looking forward to one of these earlier." She wrapped both hands around the mug and leaned into it, breathing in the scent. "Alfred, what did we do to deserve you?"

"I find it unlikely you could have doubt that actions could have in any way 'earned' me."

"True," she laughed. She cuddled the mug and drank deeply from it. "You always make the best hot chocolate. How do you do it?"

"A good butler never reveals his secrets."

"Secrets seem to be a common denominator for all of us."

Alfred nodded and moved to tidy up the pan and bits in the kitchen.

"You know, I was pretty pissed when you showed up today."

"Hmm." Alfred raised an eyebrow, calmly wiping down the countertop. "You are all fiercely independent."

She chuckled. "That's the understatement of the century." She sipped her hot chocolate. "You know, at first I couldn't believe you were spying on me. It felt like you thought I couldn't take care of myself. But having someone to talk to was...nice. And as much as I hate admitting it, your help was, well, helpful."

"Thank you, Miss Gordon. I fully expected your resentment, but your health and safety are of paramount importance to me."

"I know. You let us know every day, and even if we don't tell you how much we appreciate you, we do. We all do. Your steady presence and support? I rely on it without even realizing it."

Alfred just nodded, still wiping the same area of countertop.

"All those pamphlets today...I realized that you are our lighthouse-our steady, reliable guide, getting us safely home...or patching us up when we get here." She reached out and touched his arm. "Thank you."

Alfred cleared his throat. "You're very welcome, Miss Gordon." He hung the towel carefully on the oven handle, even, and precisely in the middle. "I will have to be going, and leave you to your electronic surveillance."

She went ahead of him to the door. One hand on the knob, she grinned at him. "Next time I need to do in person surveillance, I'll know who to call to be bored in the cold with."

"Next time, Miss Gordon. Take care of yourself."

The door latched behind him, and Barbara turned the locks, sending the bolts home. "You do the same, Alfred Pennyworth," she murmured to the closed door.

She wheeled to her surveillance array. With ten hours of comms chatter and goings-on to catch up on, she figured she'd be up all night. It was her turn to stand watch as a beacon to guide the others home.

~end~


End file.
